


Along Came Sluggy

by meditationsinemergencies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Producers (2005)
Genre: mention of Neville/Hannah, the producers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29677998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meditationsinemergencies/pseuds/meditationsinemergencies
Summary: Horace and Neville, stuck with running Hogwart's Summer Arts Camp, try to find a way to sabotage the program.-----Winner Best Comedy of Music Magic Dumbledore's Armada Flash Fic Competition
Comments: 23
Kudos: 12
Collections: Music: A Magic Beyond All We Do Here





	Along Came Sluggy

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [sunflower_swan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_swan/pseuds/sunflower_swan) in the [MusicMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/MusicMagic) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  The Producers
> 
> This was written for Dumbledore's Armada Flash Fic Competition. 
> 
> This piece is, much like The Producers, a comedy and intended to be satirical. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Anything italicized comes directly from the film The Producers and did not of my astounding genius but someone else’s, specifically Mel Brooks’.
> 
> \---

**_***_ **

**_Max Bialystock:_ **

_Here's to failure_

**_Leo Bloom:_ **

_...To failure_

**_Fanfiction Writer at Her Desk, Either Drunk, Overly Caffeinated, or Sleep Deprived:_ **

_Why, thank you! You're very kind!_

_***_

  
  


Neville Longbottom walked into his office at Hogwarts, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, and he saw that sitting at _his_ desk was Horace Slughorn. 

Horace had his elbows on the desk, and his face lit up when he saw Neville, “There's the person I wanted to see! I thought about what you said, Longbottom.” 

Neville, quite sure what Horace was referring to, but not wanting it to be what he was referring to, shook his head, “Wh-what are you referring to, P-Professor?

He waved his hand at Neville dismissively, “We're colleagues. Don't call me Professor for Merlin's sake." 

Horace paused as if waiting for Neville to correct himself and call him Horace or Slughorn or anything other than Professor, but when the younger man didn't say anything, Horace let out a sigh and ran a hand over his moustache, smoothing out any askew hairs. 

The two men couldn't be any different or look any different, and it didn't have anything to do with their age. Horace was stout—he hadn't bothered to try and stay in shape as he aged—he had a large moustache that often held crumbs from some sort of biscuit, and if one were to smell it, they would smell brandy or mulled wine. His hair was thinning and always messy. His shirts always a bit dirty and wrinkled. This didn't affect the way people saw Horace though. The man walked about with the utmost confidence; he had an inordinate amount of hubris. 

Neville, however, was long and lean. His face was always clean-shaven, his hair neatly brushed and pushed away from his face. And, even though he was usually working with this plant or that plant, his clothes were clean and pressed. His hands were callused, but his nails were trim and clean. But, Neville, unlike Horace, was not confident. He was a bit mousy, quiet and soft-spoken, and usually worried about something. 

Two weeks ago the men had been pulled into McGonagall's office, where they were told that they were going to have to stay at Hogwarts over the summer to run an art camp, one where the students used their collective talents to put on a musical. It has been brought to McGonagall's attention that Hogwarts had serious issues, one of those issues being the lack of arts in the school. 

While both Neville and Horace agreed that the school lacked in this area, neither had wanted to have to stay all summer. Neville had just begun dating Hannah Abbott—a lovely blonde Hufflepuff, who cooked better than anyone he knew and had the most adorable dimples. He had been looking forward to taking her all over the world with him this summer, specifically Rio. 

There were plants in Rio that would make a fine addition to his greenhouses, not to mention the thought of Hannah in a bathing suit made his mouth go dry. She'd shown him the one she'd bought for the trip, a beautiful white strapless one-piece that showed off her delicate shoulders and small freckles, which reminded him of butterscotch chips. 

But, no more white bathing suit. 

No more butterscotch freckles. 

No more Rio.

Horace didn't have any specific plans but he intended to make his rounds with his many connections and friends and lovers. While he was a man who would not be tied down, he was a ferociously passionate lover, and this helped him in more than one way—he wasn't in it for the sex, he was in it for what it gave him after sex. So, to say he was frustrated was an understatement.

Neville had joked, in frustration, that he and Horace should botch the whole thing. Make it so bad that McGonagall cancelled the event entirely. Neville didn't know how they'd do this, he wasn't even being serious when he’d said it, but he knew that this was why Horace was in his office. 

Horace leaned forward, his voice low and intense with just enough venom. "Stop being such a coward. Do you want to spend all of your summer stuck here? Doing what? A summer arts program? Musicals? Theatre? Singing? Dancing? Painting? Students expressing themselves? Disgusting!” He made a face like he was going to spit and then continued, “McGonagall cannot demand this of us. We have to ruin it."

“Y _ou’ve mistaken me for someone with a spine,_ ” Neville scoffed. "Plus, how could we possibly ruin a summer arts camp’s musical?” 

Horace beamed. It was clear the man had a plan. 

He stood and held his hand up in a fist before raising one finger, “Step one: We find the worst musical ever written.” 

  
He rounded the desk and stood in front of Neville now, putting up a second finger, “Step two: We be the worst directors possible, which won’t be hard because what do we know about directing a play or producing one for that matter.” 

“Well…” Neville began, “I have always thought being a producer—”

Horace cut him off and held up a third finger, “Step three: We cast the worst of the students to be in it.” 

He was quickly walking around Neville now, rubbing his moustache excitedly. Suddenly, he slapped his hand on Neville’s shoulder, looking up at the younger man. 

He held up his other hand, with four fingers raised, “Step four: We raise two million galleons.”

“Two million galleons?” Neville asked incredulously.

Gesturing to himself and then Neville, Horace replied, “One for me. One for you,” as if it made perfect sense

“But why? We have the funds...the Ministry—” 

Horace looked down at the ground then back up and Neville. 

Shrugging he said, “No idea. It seemed fitting, though, don’t you think? McGonagall isn’t paying _us_ for this, is she? Anyway…forget about that part.”

He looked Neville full in the face and beamed, “And before you can even think step five, young man, McGonagall shuts us down. We’re out. Arts camp either shuts down or goes to someone else. And us? We’re free. 

“It’ll never work,” Neville whispered. 

“Oh, please. What did Potter say to Granger when everything was going to shit? What did Dumbledore say to Snape when he struggled to murder the ancient prat? What did you say to yourself when you slew Nagini with that sword?” 

He stared at Neville as if expecting the obvious response; Neville looked at him blankly, completely confused. 

“Well, what did you all say?” Horace demanded. 

The nervous young man shrugged. Horace was so intense, and Neville felt immense anxiety blooming in his stomach. “I don’t know. What did we all say?” 

Horace slapped his forehead and leaned into Neville, “We...can...do it. We can do it!”

Neville shook his head quickly back and forth, his cheeks jiggling as it did so. “It won’t work. It can’t work. McGonagall! I can’t...I can’t disappoint her, sir.” 

“Pfft. McGonagall doesn’t care. She’s only doing what she thinks she has to do to make the Ministry happy.” 

Neville didn’t quite believe this, but he wanted to. For weeks, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Hannah in her bathing suit, her face—her lovely face—her blonde hair wet from the pool water, and her bathing suit falling to the flo—. 

“Well?” Horace interrupted his thoughts.

The thought of how disappointed McGonagall would be with him overtook any thoughts of his lovely Hannah, “No, no... I can’t.

“Don’t you want to go to Rio with _Hannah_ ?” Horace let her name slide off his tongue, raising an eyebrow at Neville. “Don’t want you to do something for yourself? All you need is to invoke some of that Gryffindor bravery. _Don’t you realize there’s a lot more to you than there is to you_?”

“There’s not—” He began, but Horace interrupted him again.

“Longbottom! You slew Nagini. You can do this. Just think about it.” Horace slapped Neville on the back and then left him standing alone in his own office. 

***

Days later, Slughorn leaned out the window of his office. He had spotted a beautiful blonde woman walking by and he simply couldn’t resist the urge to yell obscenities at her—one of his favourite pastimes. He did not care that there was a man there with her. 

He hollered, as loudly as he could, “That’s it, baby. If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

The couple stopped abruptly, and the man looked up at him, shielding his eyes from the sun to see better. The man yelled, “What the hell? Horace? That’s my girlfriend! Don’t be so crude, you pig. Not to mention, that could have been a student.”

Horace raised his eyebrows. “ _That’s_ Hannah? Really, Neville? Good for you. Have you thought about my offer? I’ll take her to Rio if you don’t want to.” 

He turned towards Hannah and said with the wink, “I’m quite the charmer, sweetness, once you get to know me.” He then leaned back into his office and slammed the window shut, muffling out the sounds of whatever Neville was yelling at him

***

A week had passed since their conversation when Neville walked into Horace’s office and, before the older man could greet him, said matter-of-factly, “Let’s do it. Let’s put on the worst musical this school has ever seen.”

A grin spread across Horace’s face. “Excellent. Sit. I have scripts for us to read.”

The men read and read and read, and none seemed quite bad enough. Finally, near the bottom of the pile, Horace pulled out a thick script, and laughter overtook him. He held the script to his belly, his face turning red with laughter. 

“What?” Neville inquired, growing tired of reading and wishing for some humour, too. 

Horace handed the script over to him. Neville took it and read the title, “Oh. Merlin. We can’t do this.”

“Yes. We can. This is perfect. This is how we get the whole thing shut down.” Horace’s eyes were twinkling with delight.

Neville gulped, his throat dry, handing the script back to the older man. Horace kept laughing and reading lines to Longbottom, who was feeling increasingly uneasy about the whole thing. 

He barked out another laugh through his moustache, “Listen to this bit.” 

He cleared his throat and sang, “Let’s get rid of all this crud, we’re flying down into the mud—we need more pure wizarding blood!” 

The older man slapped his desk with the script, “This is practically a love letter to Voldemort. It’s distasteful and brilliant. It’s offensive and perfect. It’s horrible, and I love it.” 

After a few more minutes of reading, Horace stood up and waved his hand in the air: “Slughorn and Longbottom present: Springtime for Voldemort and Purebloods.” 


End file.
